Condemned: Criminal Origins
by Mister Takeda
Summary: Alpha male Ethan Thomas asserts his dominance over colleagues and serial killers alike in this gripping tale of man-handling action.


Condemned: Criminal Origins

By Mister Takeda

* * *

Agent Thomas, renown by his peers for his astute investigative technique and impressive physique, has, unfortunately, died this past week. He will be remembered by his mother, Agatha Thomas, and his three cats.

Three cats looking for good home. House broken, but deceptive on this matter. Clever, good killers. Not recommended for household with children.

-Metro City Harbinger, Obits and Personals

* * *

Agent Thomas flexed his aching muscles. The hobo lay dead at his feet. "You got to catch them early." He assured the detective, "or they get into the sewers, and then who knows how big they'll get."

"You're 100% straight, Agent Thomas," The Metro City officer remarked. "Boys could learn a thing or two from you."

"I am, according to my genetic profile." Thomas rolled his sleeves back down, and strained to fasten the buttons. "One of the few."

"Well, this neighborhood is crawling with halfers and fagsiders, so be careful."

This made Ethan angry. Despite the government's best efforts, the numbers kept rising. The technology to detect homosexuality had existed since shortly after World War II, and genetic profiling had only increased their capabilities. He was a rare scan, a one-hundred percenter. This made him a foot taller than most of the men in the office, budging with hard, sinewy muscle. Even his knees bulged. When he took showers, the men of the agency gathered, admiring his physique.

"The killer probably holed up in here," the detective said, ducking under the tape. "Place is abandoned. Nobody to hear the screams."

"Nobody who matters, anyway," Ethan said, stepping over his latest kill.

The scene was gruesome. Parts of department store mannequins were strewn across the filth. Thomas followed the trail of simulated carnage to its centerpiece, the off white torso of a woman, with bulging, plastic biceps wedged into its artificial joints. He was overcome with a manly rage and began to vomit.

This caused sympathetic vomiting by the police detective and several crime scene investigators who lingered in the room.

Thomas gasped for breath, punching a wall before regaining his composure. Flecks of vomit flew from his perfectly chiseled mouth as he spoke. "THAT SON OF A BITCH!"

"Disgusting.." The detective remarked."

"It's definitely him."

"X?"

"Or a very good imitator."

"Why does he.. you know.. with the mannequins?"

"Who knows why homocriminals do what they do." Thomas heaved. "It's not my job to understand them."

"Just beat them to a bloody pulp," the detective mused.

The FBI had long given up on trying to understand the homosexual menace. Their narrow chested, lisping, limp wrists, and turtleneck wearing ways sickened even the most hardened agent. Instead, they had taken to training their agents in the art of the manly beat down, the musclebound justice of the street. No. There was a time when they used to try and understand the menace, treat them, give them vaginas, or make them date realgirls, forcing them to fuck while they watched, but such a time had ended after the revolution. Now they just beat them to a pulp, their effeminate sobbing music to the ears of their agents. Thomas, far from being the exception, was known for his propensity for sniffing out and killing homocrime. He spent most of his time on the street, uncovering illicit bathhouses, antique stores, and dance clubs, stalking them, drawing them out with his irresistible heterocharm, and then smashing them to a pulp.

"Agent?! AGENT!"

"Huh—whu?"

"I was asking you about the crime scene."

"There were mannequins.. everywhere."

"And the bodies?"

"What bodies?"

"At the crime scene. The murders. Surely, you—"

"There don't need to be bodies at a crime scene, just unrelenting homosexuality!"

"Agent! You're this close to getting a suspension for insensitive behavior! Goddamnit, Thomas! We don't need another lawsuit!"

"I'm just doin' my job, assistant director."

"You USED to do your job, Thomas. And you were quite good at it. Now.. I don't know what you're doing, but it's profoundly inappropriate."

"But I gotta stop them.. they.. they fuck each other.. in their butts."

"Suspension, Thomas! Two weeks without pay!"

"What the hell for?!"

"Next time, I'll be asking you to resign."

"If there is a next time," he croaked, rising from his desk and walking out of the office.

The assistant director of the FBI called in the department's clinical psychologist, who eyed Thomas warily as she closed the office door.

* * *

Thomas stomped home.

"Won't let me do my JOB!" he muttered to himself in a Batmanesque rasp.

"Hey, buddy. You gotta quarter?"

Thomas' eyes met the hobos. The man was filthy, malnourished, his sizable bulk shrunken and yellowed beneath his many layers of dirty winter clothes.

"You picked the wrong day to exist," he said, speaking as he rolled up his sleeves.

The homeless man must have run off as Thomas effortlessly pried a pipe from the bit of exposed plumbing in the wall.

Besides the homosexual menace, the hobo was the greatest threat to society. Their shifty antics sucked the life out of a society already on the brink. Meeting them made Thomas see red. He hated thinking about them, crawling, scurrying, making soft scritching noises in the walls at night. He imagined them, their filthy beards brushing against as neck like a brillow pad, draining him of his precious blood as he slept.

He paused to vomit before unlocking his apartment door.

* * *

Ethan Thomas collapsed on the soiled mattress on the floor. He was exhausted. He hadn't slept in over a week, and the room spun whenever he stopped moving. The medication his doctor gave him did nothing but burn his lips when he smoked it. He'd stopped taking it after he started hallucinating, a dead man, blood on his hands, a room full of onlookers, some screamed, others ran. All he could think to do was to keep punching. He was exhausted, and as he closed his eyes, he slept.

He dreamed of his mother, large and brusque. She was spanking him. It was something he appreciated now, even if, at the time, it had seemed excessive. He was a bad child and he knew it. She needed to beat him, to ensure he didn't turn out like one of the bad men, touching each other, bulges springing from their tight jeans.

He awoke to the blaring sound of the election van.

"Vote for Mayor Haggar! Four more years of hard street justice!"

He had fallen asleep in his vomit sodden suit. He fumbled around for a cigarette, realizing he was erect. He masturbated while he dressed himself. There was work to be done. Today was the day of the raid.

Kissing the man firmly on the lips, he began to play with his cock through his leather pants. He was disgusted, but the FBI employed him to root out gaycrime, and this is how you did it, and judging from how hard the man was, he was _very_ good at his job.

* * *

"By Tiber Septim's cock," the Imperial guardsman yelled, "that is the gayest story I've ever heard!"

"It gets better," the wood elf said boyishly, accentuating his words with a :3

"No! I've heard enough! OFF TO JAIL WITH YOU!"

"Oh! Talk tough to me, tough guy! I love it when you talk tough."~

The trooper hoisted the wood elf over his shoulder, taking the short walk from the Waterfront District to the Imperial Prison, disappearing and reappearing with each load screen.

"You're staying right here till you pay your fine, law breaker, and personally, I hope you rot."

"Oh, you know you love it!" the wood elf said with the gay enthusiasm only his species' voice actor could provide.

"Hey!" said another gay sounding, though slightly sinister voice, "Hey, you! Wood elf! What did you do to get in here? It doesn't matter. You're going to DIE in here, you know."

"Guard the emperor!" A voice shouted in the distance.

"Move out of the way, prisoner!"

* * *

"I've got a tummy ache." Agent Thomas thought, wiping the cum from his lips. "The things I do for my country!"

"Thomas?!" the assistant director exclaimed, his mouth agape.

"Assistant director? I didn't notice you in your gimp suit."

"Damnit, Thomas. Why didn't you tell me you were—"

"What? I'm undercover! The raid! Don't you remember?!"

"Goddamnit, Thomas."


End file.
